Silence is Madness
by wyldcat
Summary: He likes his life noisy, because when it’s not he begins to think about things best left buried. He hates thinking. Tenth Doctor, but can be Nine as well. Introspective.


Summary: He likes his life noisy, because when it's not he begins to think about things best left buried. He hates thinking.

Disclaimer: don't own.

A/N: Written in a couple of hours, in one sitting but with dinner in between. I suppose that's not one sitting then. But it basically was! -is somewhat proud- Anyway, this is the result of what you get from a day of no school and hence a long weekend to get through. Funnily enough, it's 1395 words of pure angst. Bleh. Enjoy.

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**Silence is Madness**

He likes his life noisy.

He's always known that, but it is during times like these when that realisation hits him the hardest. When there isn't anyone to talk to, or anything to focus his thoughts on. His mind drifts then, first to trivial, stray, fleeting thoughts that don't stay for long. Like a hand brushing over the pages of a well read book and onto nothing. The blank canvas of his life unfolds before him and suddenly he feels so lost and so very, very alone.

A moment of silence has always led to thinking, and it is times like these that he hates. He hates thinking _so_ much.

Not the normal kind of thinking. No, he likes normal thinking. Thinking of simple, mundane, everyday things – that's what he likes. He also likes thinking of complicated things. Not the _complicated_ ones, of course, but the complicated-simple. Or simple-complicated. Things that stimulate his overactive and dare he say, highly imaginative mind and point it in the right direction, away from the shadows. Things like The Universe's Top Ten Unsolved Temporal Problems – he likes thinking about them. Very much so.

It's the _other_ kind of thinking he hates – the kind that isn't simple, simple-complicated or mundane, but the horribly _complicated_ kind. It's the kind that is born out of the emptiness that is always within him, whether it be buried deep below or just under the surface.

He hates it when that emptiness is the aforementioned latter, because then it's so much easier for it to rise out of the void and swallow him whole. And when it does, he begins to think. _Really_ think.

He thinks of the past, and of family and friends, and home. And he thinks of his actions, and the consequences, and he thinks of himself, and he thinks why, why, _why_. Why him, why is it _always_ him that lives?

He knows why. He's always known why. The answer closely links to _who_ he is, but funnily enough, he isn't so sure of who he is exactly.

He's always found it incredibly difficult to express himself. When he tries to do the serious talk, the words usually tumble awkwardly from his mouth and end up in a puddle of mess at his feet. He usually stops just about then and begins to babble about something totally inane. He's good at that. But in his mind, to himself, he has no trouble at all saying things that he would never say aloud. He's good at that too. What the trouble now is the answer to the ever-pervading question. Who is he really?

Over nine hundred years, he's amassed himself a range of titles in the place of one name. And over nine hundred years, he's amassed himself a range of faces, and he doesn't mean the ten faces he's had so far.

To some people, he's family. Brother, Father, Grandfather... He misses them, all of them. To other people, he's a friend, a person who takes them round the universe and shows them the sights, right to the furthest corners of the spectrum. To some people, he's more than a friend, and that is when he falls.

But that's just who he is on the surface. And it's times like these when he thinks under the surface. When he _really_ thinks.

He hates thinking. But he can't stop himself, especially when his thoughts flow so easily on from one another. He's good at that. Fantastically good at that, unfortunately.

He's been – and in some cases, still is – so many things in his long life. An idealist. An explorer, adventurer, outcast, rebel, and hopefully a good friend to everyone he's known. And then, there is the _other_ him. The other him has killed millions and millions. The other him is the one with the lost soul, the one who can't ever be redeemed. The murderer.

But he's good at deluding himself. Ridiculously good at it. He lies and pretends, and he smiles and he laughs like there isn't a care in the universe. He's the Doctor, the one without a name and without a past, and when life is noisy, he can live like that.

During the quiet times like these, however, he thinks. _Really_ thinks, and he recalls that the one he addresses as the 'other' him is the one and the same. And he feels awful. Because it's all him – the all-smiles one together with the murderer. It doesn't work, it doesn't make sense, it shouldn't happen, but the two halves coexist, and he has to balance the two somehow. Well, he should. He doesn't though.

He's the Doctor, the greatest pretender in all of the universe. The all-smiles side wins out when his life is noisy, when he can pretend to be perfectly normal. Roaming the universe in a rickety old Type 40 TARDIS doesn't exactly constitute as being 'normal' per se, but it's easier to say that he's a wanderer because he wants to be one, not that he _has_ to be one.

He's so good at deluding himself. He can flood those memories away and make himself think that everything in the past didn't happen to him, but to the _other_ him.

He likes his life noisy. It isn't always though, and sometimes, it's so quiet even when one of his friends is around. Times like these are when he has to actually talk and stop pretending for a little while. Well, he guesses that's what is supposed to happen. But he's been deluding himself for so long, and he's gotten ridiculously good at it. So when it's time to stop the act, he can't. He can't stop. It's beyond his control. So he spills out half-truths, but mostly lies and more lies, and his friends believe him because they think his act only goes one layer deep. But they're wrong. So very wrong.

He is so utterly and completely _fake_. During the quiet, alone times, times like these, he plays out an imaginary conversation in his head. It comes so easily to him, what he would say, what they would say. He's good at that. He imagines that one day in that conversation, overcome with guilt pent up from all those years, he'll peel back all the layers he's kept up for so long and then they'll see the real him. They may not like it at first, but they'll come to accept him and so life goes on as usual. It's an idealistic thought, he realises. And he's not idealistic, not anymore. A moment later, he realises that that imaginary conversation will never happen.

He's always prided himself in his ability to be very logical. It's gotten him and others out of sticky situations countless times, and he's glad for it. But it's also allowed him to think things through step by step, which meant that he could see what would happen should he ever stop pretending.

"Do you trust me?"

"I trust you."

He smiles then, because it's the thing to do, and everything continues as normal. But during times like these, when he can look back and remember just how many times someone's said that to him, he winces. He doesn't deserve their trust, because all they've ever seen is a lie. But to break out of that cycle, to finally stop pretending – it's much too hard. He doesn't want to shatter the idea they have of him – the persona called 'the Doctor' – and thrust reality in their faces instead because he knows they'll leave. They _will _leave, with absolute certainty. And he can't bear that. To live a deathly quiet life by himself, alone for eternity – he can't. Not ever. It's rather selfish of him, he reflects, but in the silence he could go mad, thinking like this. It's really not much of a wonder that he hasn't already, because it's always here that the logical, rational part of him kicks in and says no, no, no. Don't do that.

So the madness never comes, and he keeps pretending. He deludes himself again and locks away the past that belongs to the other him. Sooner or later, when he finds someone else to share his fake life with, he'll be all smiles again. Inane chatter all around. It's so much easier to act when there's an audience.

He likes his life noisy.

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Please review! (Just randomly, I really can't wait til Human Nature! Just a few more hours…well actually, more like twenty-four-ish…) 


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